


Put That Knife Down

by elsalovelove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Self-Harm, Sherlock just needs a hug, this might be really cheesy, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsalovelove/pseuds/elsalovelove
Summary: John is in love with Sherlock. One night, when he goes to check in on Sherlock to see if he’s having any nightmares, he’s encountered with a horrible sight.





	Put That Knife Down

**Author's Note:**

> Self-harm is a very real and important issue. Please consider the this as a warning before reading this fic! Also, disclaimers: I do not own Sherlock/John characters, and I am in no way representing all of the people who self-harm as Sherlock, or that kissing someone is the solution to self-harm. (Plus I whipped this up in about 40 minutes so… *^^*)

John shifted in his sleep. His eyes flew open, and he lay panting and sweating on his bed. Another nightmare.

He grunted as he pushed himself off the mattress. The floorboards creaked in the quiet night, startling him. He should drink a cup of cold water to calm down his nerves. 

He trudged to the where the kitchen was, rubbing the back of his neck. He got himself a cup of cold water and he absentmindedly sipped at it. 

His eyes drifted to the door of Sherlock’s room while he was leaning on the counter. John felt his heart tighten at the mental image of Sherlock sleeping soundly with his dark lock of curls astray, shining in the moonlight, and his plump mouth shut for once.

He put the cup back into the sink, making a mental note to clean it tomorrow(not that Sherlock will do it, of course, that git. He never does any house chores. It’s always John or Mrs. Hudson). Quietly, he crept towards Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He sometimes checked in on Sherlock, making sure that he wasn’t having nightmares. At first, it had started as a guilty nighttime ogling whenever he was woken up by his own nightmares, but some weeks earlier, he had walked in on Sherlock sweating and whimpering. Well, Sherlock, too, was human after all.

John slowly leaned on the door, checking for any sound. When he didn’t hear much except a slight rustling — which he assumed was a natural noise made by Sherlock shifting in his bed — he turned the doorknob and let the door slowly open.

He almost had a heart attack when his confused eyes focused on the dark outline of Sherlock sitting up on his bed. He was facing towards the door, but his head was down so that he couldn’t see John yet; plus, the moonlight illuminating his back created a shadow on his front, making it hard for John to see what he was doing.

While John tried to calm down his erratic heartbeat, he caught glimpse of something glistening. What was it? He squinted in the dim light…

He was sure that he might have a heart attack now. What the fuck was Sherlock doing with a knife in his room?

His hands crept silently towards the light switch of the room. He didn’t think about what he was going to say to Sherlock when he was caught standing in his bedroom doorway in a frayed nightgown. 

_Click._

The moment was stopped like a photograph. Sherlock’s head shot up and met John’s terrified gaze, and they stood(and sat)there, their eyes interlocked. Then, John’s eyes drifted down to Sherlock’s hunched torso and…

He felt light-headed.

“Put that knife down,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse from the late hour.

“I…” Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, trying to say something.

The knife that John had seen earlier was engraving a fine line on Sherlock’s inner arm, just below his wrist, dripping crimson blood onto an open towel beneath him. Not only was Sherlock cutting his arm, there were evidence that he had done so many times before. The pale scares in his inner arm were faded, but more recent scars were still red and raw.

The tangled mess that was his brain unknotted, and he remembered what he was supposed to do in the situation. He firmly walked forward like a stern but urgent teacher breaking up a fight and threw the knife in Sherlock’s hand onto the ground. The _clank_ as the metal hit the floor made Sherlock flinch. Well, that’s new. John hadn’t seen Sherlock flinch.

“What,” he huffed in a raspy voice, “the _fuck_ are you doing?”

For once, Sherlock seemed at a loss of words. 

“Things…” Sherlock vaguely waved his arms around. John winced as the open wounds on his arm opened and closed, oozing more blood. “Got… too much.”

“Too much?” He heard his voice soften, and he gave himself a mental slap. No sentiment when treating a patient. Right now, Sherlock was hurt; Sherlock was his patient. He cleared his throat. “Stay here.”

Sherlock didn’t say a single word as he ran upstairs, got the medical kit, and ran back down. When John returned, his head was dropped again.

John gently took the injured arm into his callused hands and peered at the wound. It wasn’t terribly deep to have much damage(even though he overdosed sometimes, Sherlock wasn’t that stupid), it was still deep enough to be much more than just a little scratch.

He cleaned the wound with a gauze and petted down some ointment. The room was silent all the while.

When he had cleaned up his supplies and set them aside, he sat beside Sherlock on the bed. He felt the mattress dip underneath him.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “Is there… anything you want to talk about?”

Sherlock raised his head and looked at him — and his shoulder, for some reason — with a cautious gaze. His eyes were wide. He repeated the words, as if he didn’t quite understand them. “Talk about?”

“Mm-hmm,” he encouraged. “You know, that’s what people… do. When things get ‘too much.’”

Sherlock snorted. “People,” he repeated distastefully. “Right.”

“I know that you don’t always like what other people do, but sometimes, they do something right. And talking about something that’s bothering you is right.”

“Right and wrong is the perception set by the society—”

“Christ, alright, alright.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his short, sandy hair. “Is there… anything I can do to help?”

He unconsciously laid his hand on Sherlock’s back in a comforting manner, because that’s what people _do_. It’s nothing romantic or personal. It’s a comforting gesture. 

But both freeze.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker between his eyes and his arms, where they disappear behind his own back. 

It would be so easy to lean in like this. In a quiet night, under the moonlight. When his heart is aching from what he just saw.

Instead of making that selfish mood, he pulls Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock goes rigid under his arms, but John keeps his enclosed around his limbs, warming the freezing man up. He rubs small circles into Sherlock’s back.

“Sometimes all we need is human contact,” he sighed, relishing in the way Sherlock’s loosening body felt against his. And slightly guilty for it. “And that’s exactly what you lack.”

“Human touch is sentimental,” murmurs Sherlock. John closes his eyes because the feeling of his body gently vibrating by Sherlock’s low voice is too much.

“Maybe sentiment isn’t always bad,” he mumbles back. Sherlock’s curls tickle his cheeks, and he loves it. He doesn’t want to part. “Maybe sometimes you need it.”

“Do I?”

“If you want,” he whispers. This is dangerously close to the edge. He can lose everything he has with Sherlock. He can lose Sherlock, who have become his everything far too quickly.

They stay in a warm embrace quietly for a moment. Then, Sherlock mumbles, “I think I do.”

John’s heart skip a beat. He’s certain that Sherlock can feel it. He tries to calm his thoughts. Sherlock could just mean this hug. Nothing more. Of course, that’s what it is. People need hugs sometimes. Nothing more—

Sherlock pulls slightly away from his body. John can see the dark curls on Sherlock’s head shining in the moonlight. He can see Sherlock’s eyelashes shining in the moonlight. He can see Sherlock’s dilated pupils shining in the moonlight—

“Can I—”  
Before he can finish his sentence, he interrupts himself by gently cupping Sherlock’s sharp jaws in his hands and leaning close enough for them to share the same breath. 

Sherlock’s eyes show fear and excitement. John doesn’t know what to think. If he hasn’t moved away yet, does he actually want to—

Sherlock closes the gap between their lips. 

It’s the sweetest thing ever.


End file.
